Domino; email to my son

Ian,

I suddenly see this whole, lifelong situation clearly.

Frank and Grandad came over here to the United States on a honeymoon on a lark. At least, that was what Grandma thought. Grandad told me he knew he wanted to stay in America.

People always confided in me. I was like a receptacle for secrets, jokes, and the like.

But, within 5 months Grandma got pregnant with Steven and 14 months later, I was born. And they didnt want me. Suddenly the honeymoon was over.

She went back to England but then returned to her life here.

But, to her, everything American was a bad word. “American” was a bad word. Ian, you are probably the ONLY PERSON to whom I can confide this, please don’t use it against me. It makes ME look bad to say it. I had this trouble all my life.

I imagined I was in Africa. Through stories and movies like Born Free (about an adopted lion) and the National Geographic magazine on the coffee table in the study. And I loved learning about Native Americans and reading the Laura Ingalls Wilders series, starting with “Little House on the Prairie.” I finally met that need here! This place existed at around that time and it brings this place at that time and history here to me. I finally broke out of Manhattan/Summit/Jewish/Euro/intellectual society and moved to a real place here in my head.

Granma and Steven are dead. Grandma danced. The two of them lived out a beautiful life that I glimpsed through my life at Harvard. I don’t hold it against them. Because I realized that it didnt have to be for me–all that–i was destined to be a Christian and your fathers wife. To break out of the mold that was made for me to a better life: off of missing past England and forward to our trinational community here in the States: English, American, and Canadian: and now, Brazilian!

My job was to translate the English American to the Trinational new World citizen. It was a legitimate literary job; and I emphasize the use of the word “JOB”–like fielding a minefield. I had the assist of breaking down literature for an expert programming tool in my intro computer programming course. And the useful presidency of the Harvard Advocate that followed AND MY FAILURE IN IT under my belt. All this was perfect for the person I was at Kent, who got left behind when everybody hid over the “breast-touching:” the issue with my father before matriculating at Harvard in a very uncertain way.

So through that I got into a terrible situation with a little kitten Freshman Year. I have held myself on this all my life and now I am able to free myself. I mistreated that kitten. THAT WASNT MY FAULT. It reflected my mother’s serious serious mental disturbance, beginning with the ectopic pregancy which was a horrible skeleton in the closet in their lovely New World life.

I said that she danced. And, in the end she did. But at what a cost. She was NOT WELL WITH THE ANIMALS. That was what she prided herself on and it was the opposite. She WAS HORRIBLE TO ANIMALS. She routinely took in dying wildlife caught by the cats, nursed them with eyedroppers and then, generally, put them in a shoebox and set them at the foot of my bed at night where they died overnight and i woke up to their smell in the morning.

She prided herself in some weird way that I simply do not understand about giving the cats the cheapest possible food, kitty litter and the like. Like her cars. She disdained to clean them or to take any pains over maintenece and mocked and scorned people who do.

The cats regularly threw up their food. When I moved in here and took over responsibility for my son’s two cats here I risked her ire in going out to try another kind of dried cat food when they didnt like and threw up the one that they had been given. The second one I tried they liked and they have been eating it ever since. It is not any more expensive and they eat all of it every day and do not throw up. And they cat the one bump up individual canned cat food which they love and I can afford.

So, she didn’t understand animals and their feelings, animals have feelings and communicate with us in so many ways. That poor cat Sasha, she did with her what she did to me! You don’t even treat an animal like that! She bullied and threatened her! She wasn’t allowed to go to anyone else. They were told what she was thinking.

So, Sasha was loyal to her unto the moment of her death as we all were. But, it had to stop. The Lord showed me this for my reassurance. Because I wanted to make it up with her. To go there about the sexual abuse and everything else. To have her in the end; the mother I lost when she had the ectopic pregnancy and how it didn’t get fixed because of the malpractice and then it did through the psychoanalyst that DID SEE once I DID go back to Cambridge whether I should have or not and I see now to put that in as a defacto plank in my life regardless of how it came about as I am now learning to SUBMIT to the Lord geranlly where for decades I have not been able to because I was so terrified of her “boarding me” through the “seizures” (or whatever I should call them) when I was having a serious reaction to the medication and a life situation when I came back here to live after my stay at the state hospital in the mid 80’s. There was cat. A beautiful all grey cat. I didn’t really make the connection at the time. Now I see what they were doing and how much more evil it was than what I saw at the

time. They were excommunicating me from the family for giving exremely good advice (but not quite

perfect) about not taking off on a 7 hour drive to Smith College where my sister had just matriculated to tell her of her horses death; without a warning or anything to eat after hassling with the vet and putting the horse down all day.

I said stop, do call first and get some dinner. Claire cried and was affected.

My mother sent my cat to the road with a message. I just know that she did. Well, however that happened, my cat, Dorian (After “The Picture of Dorian Grey,” my father’s name for him) got hit by a car on the road at the back of the property and was found after being missed for several days.

My mother peered at me curiously as she told me. knowing how I would react. The issue about my relationship with my sister will be written out at some other time and not here. I understand that she is relatively rational but has been seriously misled by them and this is one instance of it, probably the most serious.

So, I was totally thrown by that and nobody could understand why and why I was reacting that way and that it was bad of me to hold up my poor cat for his death. Some 10 years later when I was in psych care here after going to California and returning pregnant with my son and being in the area for a while, I was disdained in this regard, I was still obsessing over that cats death. Now I see why. My parents were deliberatly using it to queer me about the cat in my Freshman Year in Cambride not knowing what i was doing because my mother was so weird about animals. For instance, I automatically assumed that that cat (in Cambridge; now, I call him “Domino;” even the name I gave him was an unspeakably seriously embarassing sexual innuendo); I assumed that it was my responsibility when he had been brought to my roommate, not me. And then I assumed to take him to my mother in New Jersey. Where he palled up with my mother’s pet raccon in Summit, who was in trouble for climbing up on the next door neighbors deck, it was a 5 million dollar mansion, my mother thought that was sweet. Actually no, it was when he ran away or got hit by a car and then there were 3 baby racoons and they were doing that–climbing up on their deck–and at that time she did find appropriate care for them, a wildlife rescue mission.

So, in the end, she danced. I loved that for my mother.

And in the end it has all come through that it WASNT the breast touching; It wasnt Kent School, it wasnt the abortions, it wasnt even being English; I really thought that that last thing was it but today I

have recognized the final truth: it was faith. I had not faith and without faith works are dead.! It was the opposite for me!! I was trying to be a good person and handling all these things on my own. I was trying to BE JESUS to people, NOT EVEN KNOWING HIM. I was all fd up. It came out at the state hospital. Faith was present to me all my life as something I DID NOT OWN. I was actively discouraged from it. And now, as it is now immanent, he, my father, is still trying to mount a last ditch effort to prevent my victory in Christ. Its here! I am winning/have won! Its not about him! He just gets in the way!! Bug off dad! If you dont believe that’s fine but dont get in the way if people who do.

My father is trying to back-pedal on the fact that they didn’t really take life in America seriously. They didn’t honor American society or American authority. Through my brother’s relationship with a New York City society girl, which healed them from how badly they were hit by my relationship with a Manhattan society Harvard man in college after I was abused by him; through that they wanted to make it right. But they didn’t know how to do it except through using ME more. It was just unfortunate how that went. I had a bona fide husband. We could have had a decent life. My father queered it for me.

But, I see how the truth is that none of it was real. I had vain and foolish fantasies in my head from the unfortunate experience at Harvard. I am able to let that go off of me now. My parents were just on for the ride. There was no formation for us. They paid lip service to expecting us to grow up like weeds, which is sort of what we did. On the one hand I took piano and cello lessons and had a horse for several years; on the other hand we played at the river and the city dump and the woods behind our house with the other neighborhood kids. Their friends were immigrant European generally Jewish intellectuals from the Labs. Their kids were all successful and we were supposed to be also.

I went to Kent; my brother dropped out and went back home to public high.

Nothing was ever done right. My brother complained that my father never played football or baseball with him and I thought, well, yes, he was English, and, from that I can see, we were without information, wondering what “THE PROBLEM’ was, and he said that, and I always wondered about that and then I THOUGHT, “Was it me?” and now Im thinking well, if it was, “Where there is a problem there is a solution.” (That is from a Christian song.) So, that there was this ‘Problem’ was not the answer to the Problem it posed the question, what do we do about it?

When anybody said “Life isn’t perfect,” my mother used to cry. Whenever we were packing suitcases to go on vacation, she would cry. When she was 24 and having an MH issue–couldn’t sleep, depressed, went to a doctor but didn’t like the meds–my father took her to the Lake in Litchfield County, CT (where the boarding school that I later went to was.)

After that we always went there for a couple of weeks every summer.

It was a delight; a joy for me and my brother. No other kids there, mostly older folks and they were very kind and loving toward us.

We were living in my mother’s ENGLISH fantasy world. There was no way for anyone to connect. She had all the natural instincts of a mother but she wasn’t connecting.

There was some kind of a pact there with my father. But basically, his position was that he made a promise to her father to take care of her. Kids were secondary. And I guess that’s probably typical for a man but not every man’s wife is mentally ill.

So, they cut a figure across the broad canvas of the technocracy through the 60’s, 70’s, and ’80s, but then he had the stroke in 1994 which caused minor but significant damage and since then he’s been hiding once again; and using me to do so.

I always used to be afraid of the words in the Bible where Jesus says “You come to me saying “Lord, Lord,” but I do not know you.” People actually anonymously quoted that to me! I always felt really bad about that.

It was about Love. I was deficient in Love. Through the sexual injury I was physically hampered from the ability to receive and express Love.

It is HERE, DONE, NOW. The Lord is PHYSICALLY HEALING ME.

All I needed when I was kneed in the crotch when I was little girl was a warm blanket and a little attention; that’s my theory.

The Lord is straightening that out. I was physically silenced; my speech was garbled, it came out of me yesterday. Its the OCD. It is healing. Decades of pain and suffering–sharp, painful stabs to my body and brain; the Lord is slowly, gently, and graciously healing this.

God is Love. Love is Beautiful.

Ian, I am making this a blog post Because it has to get out.

Our lives all along were unreality, an illusion. I am finally experiencing real life in an ordinary way where the simplest things–food, sleep, clothing, hygiene, shelter needs, smoking–all my life were never properly met: a band-aid treatment pending some impossible future time despaired of.

Instead, it’s HERE, DONE, NOW, my needs are met each day in the ordinary way that a person’s needs are met in almost any society and social situation, and they weren’t before. And I was trying to take care of a child: YOU!

Now I understand the simplest facts of life. They didn’t give that to us, that we would be parents ourselves one day!!! THEY weren’t prepared. And they didn’t have us prepared either, fortunately, NATURE takes care of that, to an extent, AND SO DOES GOD.

Love, Mom

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